


Good Soldier / Bad Soldier

by AnotherAnon0



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: (makeshift) Cock Rings, Age Difference, Belts, Bondage and Discipline, Boot Worship, Breeding, Bruises, Class Issues, Cock Slut, Dehumanization, Face Slapping, Hair-pulling, Heavy BDSM, Kinky, Love/Hate, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Military, Military Ranks, Nipple Piercings, Orgasm Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Race/Ethnicity Issues, Rough Sex, SUPER RAREPAIR EXTRAVAGANZA!, Scars, Sergei is a kinky whore and Mikhail is angry, Shameless Smut, Slut Shaming, Spanking, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Training, U.B.C.S, Verbal Abuse, Verbal Humiliation, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:21:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27931432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAnon0/pseuds/AnotherAnon0
Summary: Mikhail is a good soldier.Sergei is not.Mikhail wants to fix that.[heed tags!!]
Relationships: Sergei Vladimir/Mikhail Victor
Comments: 7
Kudos: 23





	1. Training Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InkNPixieDust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkNPixieDust/gifts).



Sergei Vladimir was a bully. 

Mikhail had resolved that long ago. From the very first day of his conscription interview with U.B.C.S, he'd bit his tongue and huffed silent breaths of irritation through his nose at the older man's constant condescension. The glares he shot through his unscarred eye. The smirks that made one feel small and vulnerable. The way he spoke to his soldiers -- treating them as inferior beasts of labour rather than comrades.

A simple, lowlife _bully_.

Mikhail _hated_ it.

But the older man knew to bite his tongue. He'd refined his skills at doing so over the years of serving unethical Colonels and Generals who were precisely like Sergei Vladimir. Men who wore their badges shined and chirped about respect for the military but demanded a lower, _lesser_ soldier clean their bunker or shine their shoes.

Mikhail had told himself he'd never be like that. And even as he steadily moved up the ranks in the military of his homeland, his respect for his soldiers remained of the utmost importance. It confused his fellow Captains, but he didn't care.

Comrades are comrades.That was his philosophy. Rank be damned. 

Despite his disdain for Sergei, he always remained quiet and compliant.

The Colonel was a war hero, after all. He'd lost his eye in Afghanistan -- in service of the motherland. That was worthy of respect, even if he was a morally bankrupt _bastard_. He was a hero of the Soviet Union, and Mikhail had been taught to hold them in high regard.

So he would.

He'd line his lips when the Colonel tore into one of his men -- patting them on the back and reassuring them of their value long after Sergei had left.

He'd grit his teeth when the Colonel screamed at him for the most minor of infractions -- nodding his head and responding subserviently when he did.

He'd avert his eyes when the Colonel signed yet another shady contract involving the troops -- praying he could train them well enough to survive through it.

Tonight was no different. The board meeting between Sergei and the four platoon Captains was another ego-fest. 

Mikhail bit the inside of his cheek as the Colonel launched into a furious rant at Antoni Wisniewski, Alpha Platoon's Captain. Mikhail wasn't even sure what the Pole had done wrong, but the young man hung his head in shame as Sergei cut into him on both professional and personal fronts. 

His leg jittered and bounced anxiously under the table as he watched the pathetic scene unfold before his eyes. 

His tongue darted out to lick at his rapidly drying lips, a cotton-like flavour developing in his cheeks as he tried to steel himself against what was happening.

His eyes darted from wall-to-wall, corner-to-corner, picture-to-picture -- desperate to try and shield his gaze against what was occurring. 

And then he _couldn't_.

"Colonel Vladimir! Sir!" The words barked flatly from his lips involuntarily, a glare directing itself towards the other Russian, " ** _Enough_**!"

Immediately, the room fell silent.

Sergei was clearly shocked at the sudden outburst, as was every other Captain at the table. Even Wisniewski, who had been the victim of the abuse, was gape-mouthed in horror at the random display of insubordination. 

The response was slow. Agonisingly slow. So slow it provoked physical pain from everyone in the room.

"What... did you say?" Sergei's voice was barely above a whisper, and would have been inaudible had there been one, singular decibel of sound in the room.

Mikhail breathed in deeply, jaw setting. The Captain lowered his voice to a normal speaking level, swallowing hard before he spoke but hiding his nervousness behind the calm poker face he'd trained over years of service in the Soviet army.

"I said... _enough_." He nodded, "You've made your point."

Sergei slowly stood from where he'd been hunched over Wisniewski like a pecking vulture -- the entire room hyperfocused on the two men who were staring each other down like apex predators who had crossed paths. 

Just as quiet as his last words, Sergei issued an order Mikhail knew didn't apply to him.

"Everybody get **_out_**."

The three other Captains scrambled to comply immediately, barely collecting the items they'd left on the table as they scurried from the boardroom with a haste that betrayed the fact they were all meant to be cold-blooded mercenaries.

Mikhail sat, unmoving. He folded his hands on the table neatly, eyes still locked with Sergei's as the door to the boardroom slammed shut behind the trail of anxious troops.

Silence.

A clock on the wall _tick-ticking._

A look that was so angry it was almost loud.

"Why doesn't the _ethnic terrorist_ tell me what he really thinks, hmm?" His crime hissed past Sergei's teeth like a curse, slicing through the heaviness of the air like a warm knife through butter.

Mikhail breathed deeply through his nose, rubbing his lips together. He wanted to calculate a response that would deescalate the situation like he always did, but a part of him was burning so hot that he was unable to control himself, words snaking from his mouth almost involuntarily.

"I think -- with a lack of respect for your men like that -- you were either trained by feral dogs or not trained at all!" He snapped firmly, fingers looping through knuckles and playing with each other as the nervousness inside of him began to build.

Sergei cocked his head to the side, unscarred eye narrowing in disdain.

More silence.

More _tick-ticking_ from the clock on the wall. 

More looks that were so angry they were almost loud.

And then... they became quiet.

Sergei nodded. 

A slow nod, one that accompanied lips pursing in amusement, a turn on the heels of his boots, and a steady, even stride out of the room.

Mikhail gasped a breath when the door closed behind the Colonel -- unaware he had been holding his breath since he last spoke.

"What the fuck was that...?"

~

The next day, he'd been unsurprised when the electronic notice came through, the little popup dinging on his computer screen like a bludgeon to the head as he was working through word documents containing platoon data.

He'd never been called to Sergei's office before. 

The man preferred to have meetings in the boardrooms, and Mikhail wasn't aware of a single individual who had gone to that office and made it out alive.

The popup dinged and chimed as it bounced on his screen. Annoyed, Mikhail closed it, taking in the information carefully before he hit the little ** _X_** in the corner.

_**You have been scheduled for a meeting with Colonel Vladimir.** _

_**9:30 p.m, Building 7, 9th Floor Office**_

Mikhail groaned while looking at the clock. It was already 9:15, and the executive building was a long walk from his quarters. 

With a sigh, he pushed his chair back and stood, grabbing a light sweater from his closet to throw over the white undershirt he'd adorned in preparation for sleep, not thinking he'd be leaving his room again for the night. He slipped into his boots and grabbed his keycards before leaving his room, saying goodbye to the nothingness as though he anticipated being set ablaze by the Colonel and never being able to return again.

Shuffling down landscaped pathways, through halls, up stairs, down stairs, outdoors and indoors -- Mikhail felt somewhat disassociated. 

He knew Sergei wouldn't take kindly to the verbal lashing he'd dealt. Let alone in front of other troops were rumours could form and float amongst the conscripts.

For a moment, Mikhail wondered if he'd made a mistake. A dumb, emotional outburst that might cost him his job at best and his left thumb at worst. As he swiped his keycard and entered the elevator that would bring him to Sergei's office, he let out a loud, pessimistic grunt, eyes fluttering shut as he waited for the **_DING_** that would announce his arrival into what he was sure was hell itself.

But when the doors slid open, he was taken aback.

The bright light was optimistic, what he could see of the office beautifully decorated in wooden furniture and old, layered Russian carpets.

It almost felt _cozy --_ something Mikhail most certainly did not associate with Sergei Vladimir. 

' _At least this will be a nice place to die_.' He joked to himself cynically. 

Stepping out of the elevator, Mikhail turned his head to meet the unmistakable figure of the Colonel. 

Sergei was shirtless, wearing a pair of comfortable-looking linen pants and a matching robe that was loosely hanging open. He was leaning against the edge of his desk, a cigarette dangling from his smirking lips.

Mikhail tried through the formality of a salute, but it was met with a chuckle.

"Cut the shit, Victor." Sergei jeered, "You despise me."

The Colonel reached beside him and lifted an intricately carved, silver _stopka_ , inviting Mikhail to accept it. 

Tepidly, the Captain closed the distance between them, eyes assessing the Russian vodka cup carefully as though it were filled with molten lava. 

Sergei snorted a chuckle when he saw the younger man's expression of trepidation, plucking the cigarette from his lips and downing the liquor in a single gulp as though to prove its safety.

The gesture made Mikhail smile.

Refilling the glass and pouring one of his own using the bottle on the desk, Sergei once again invited Mikhail to drink. This time, the Captain accepted the cup, though still somewhat confused about what was happening.

Sergei didn't _seem_ to want to murder him. 

Strange.

The two men shared minutes of silence as they drank, Sergei snuffing his cigarette out on an ashtray beside his hip as Mikhail appreciated the unmistakable aroma of an expensive, imported vodka. It had been a long time since he'd even had the cheap stuff, never mind high quality. 

Mikhail used the opportunity to assess the Colonel curiously, eyes peeping over the rim of his _stopka_ as he drank, never having seen Sergei out of his leather trenchcoat and fatigues. Even on the hottest of Rockford Island days, he remained unchanged. It was always something that confused Mikhail and the troops.

The most striking thing about Sergei were the _scars_. So many scars. Pitted scars, raised scars, poorly-healed scars in every colour of maligned wound. Mikhail could just barely see them jutting across the man's hairless chest and disappearing into the hem of the robe.

But a flush tickled at Mikhail's cheeks as, in his careful assessment, he finally noticed the curt, silver barbells piercing one of Sergei's nipples, the one he could just barely see.

And Sergei noticed that he had noticed.

The Colonel smirked, lifting his refreshed _stopka_ to his lips and taking another shot of the vodka.

Finally, he spoke -- deep, rolling voice licking over syllables with a richness that made Mikhail immediately contemplate the inferiority of his own accent.

"So you think I need training?"

Mikhail set his empty cup down, clearing his throat, "I didn't mean it like that..." He said, "I know you are a war her--"

A sneering laugh interrupted Mikhail's attempt at deescalating the situation he'd caused the previous day, the Captain stopping mid-sentence as Sergei leaned closer to him, ducking his head down slightly so their faces were perfectly level. 

"You were so forceful yesterday, Victor." Sergei said with a pout, "What happened?"

The room was getting warm.

Mikhail shifted from boot to boot, rubbing his lips together and clearing his throat again.

Sergei smiled at Mikhail's obvious discomfort, standing from the desk with a soft grunt.

"Why don't you be a _good_ _comrade_ and tell me about this training I am so lacking in your opinion..."

He sauntered slowly across the carpet, moving a few feet in front of the other man before stopping and letting his robe roll from his shoulders seductively, the white fabric pooling to the floor like spilled milk. 

Mikhail's breath caught in his throat as the harsh, thin scars painted across the older man's muscular back came into full visibility. They were unmistakable as anything but angry, repeated whip marks. 

Sergei cast a gaze over his shoulder, licking his lips slowly as hazy, prickly words droned forth from him and tickled at Mikhail's ears.

"I do like training."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is something I have had in the drafts for a LOOOOOONG time. Ever since InkNPixieDust suggested a Mikhail/Sergei. Excited to bed finally dealing with this, even if it is literally the rarest pairing in the history of ships. 
> 
> The next chapter will be pure filth.


	2. Bad Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sergei gets what he asked for.

"I-- I have a wife."

It was almost reflexive.

A desperate, involuntary blather. His preconditioned, hair-trigger response to anything in this vein. 

Sergei began laughing, sincere amusement in his chuckle as he turned to face the other man. He closed the distance between them again, this time facing him while Mikhail leaned against the desk behind him, as though he would try to skirt over it at any moment. 

Two. Two nipple piercings, Mikhail noted with annoyance, eyes still raking over the older man's body without the consent of his brain.

The Colonel's arm slipped past Mikhail's, pouring himself another _stopka_ of vodka as his chest almost brushed Mikhail's shoulder, the Captain utterly flabbergasted as to how the night was unfolding.

Lifting the vodka to his lips, Sergei stared down at the shorter man, a sparkle in his unscarred eye.

"Didn't stop you from fucking my Kolya, did it, Misha?" He said before he downed the shot.

Mikhail bristled, the blush that had developed maturing further until it was a beet-red streak of paint across his nose and cheeks.

Nicholai.

The _bastard_. 

It had been a random tryst of sloppy sex in the bathroom of the local bar in the nearby settlement. Mikhail had condemned himself for his infidelity ever since, but had gambled on Nicholai being just as repressed and shameful about his occasional homoerotic urges as he had been and keeping quiet.

His gamble had proven wrong.

"I-ah... I--"

Sergei cocked his head to the side, licking his lips in amusement, "My Kolya tells me everything. We have known each other for years. He was my good boy in _Spetsnaz_." The taller man leaned down, hunching into his shoulders so his nose lingered just above Mikhail's. 

"He said you did a great job." He giggled, "He's a bit of a whore and is difficult to please, so if he commended you that's worthy of pride!" 

Mikhail's head began to drum with the familiar sensations of a headache blasting through his temples. 

He could smell the vodka on Sergei's warm breath, the man standing so incredibly close to him. There as another smell -- maybe the faint scent of cologne or shower wash, a pleasant, citrus-like scent tickling from his pores. 

And then there were those _fucking_ nipple piercings. 

Mikhail assessed the situation deeply for a moment, eyes flicking from the map of scars on Sergei's chest to the Colonel's liquor-flushed, grinning face as he idly thought through what was happening.

The older man was certainly attractive, in his own dark, cruel way. A strong jawline, pin-straight nose and high, slavic cheekbones contrasted strongly against Mikhail's own, round, plush face. 

Sergei had mocked his looks, once. When he'd found him comforting tearful mercenaries, he'd called him _dedushka --_ grandpa _\--_ even though the Colonel was far older than he was. Another occasion, he'd called him _druzhok,_ like he were a migrant taxi driver, prompting snickers from the other Slavs in the training line. 

The Colonel had always tore into him for his participation in ethnic separatism, accusing him of disrespecting the motherland. He'd even garnered support from other Russian mercenaries, all of whom felt they had a right to sneer down their nose at him for his _Altai_ ethnicity with the Colonel's racist blessing. 

Mikhail clucked his tongue against his teeth, biting the inside of his cheek for a moment.

This might be _cathartic_ , he thought.

A way to get out some frustrations.

The Captain sighed loudly, arm slipping out beside him to grab at the neck of the vodka bottle on the desk, lifting it to his lips and taking a deep, long swig -- so deep and so long that it prompted Sergei's eyebrows to push up towards his forehead in surprise. 

The bottle made a chipper **_pop_** as it left his lips, **_clicking_** loudly when he set it back down on the desk, complimenting the _**crack**_ of his neck as he quickly rolled it against his shoulders.

And then, he acted. 

Sergei was taken off guard by the sudden backhand that struck against his cheek, causing him to lose balance and buckle to a knee with a gasp. His hand rose to rub at his cheek, unscarred eye widening as he looked up at the other man curiously. Mikhail was still standing, leaning against the desk nonchalantly, staring down at him with what could only be described as increasingly obvious disdain. 

It matched the pace of the smile that began to pull at Sergei's scarred lips.

Mikhail immediately became singularly focused on banishing that smile for good.

One of his hands darted out and coiled in Sergei's longer-than-regulation hair, squeezing his fist closed and tugging at the silver locks carelessly as he bent at the hips to lower himself to Sergei's level.The man's incredible height was barely muted by his stance on a knee, Mikhail being almost a full foot shorter than he was, but even the tiny dip downwards was done with a deep condescension as if it were more.

"You want to be trained, Sergei?" He whispered, the older man's first name breathing past his lips disrespectfully. He couldn't remember if he'd ever used that name for the man. It was always 'Sir,' or 'Colonel,' or ' _Polkovnik_.'

" _Da_!"

Mikhail squeezed the fistful of hair harder, feeling a few rip from their follicles and prompting a squeak of pain to peep from Sergei's now-twitching lips.

" ** _Sir_**." He corrected simply, voice flat and firm.

" _D-da_ , Sir." Sergei's voice dropped to a breathy, lusty rasp. It tickled somewhere deep in Mikhail's belly, 

He released the grip of hair aggressively, immediately demanding Sergei strip his pants with a cruel bark. The Colonel complied, excitement-trembling hands fumbling over the waistline, rising from his knees to stand so he could push the fabric down -- revealing he wasn't wearing any briefs. 

Mikhail snorted, "You anticipated being tossed around tonight, didn't you?"

Sergei's organ was handsome, Mikhail couldn't deny it as much as he wanted to. He wanted to be able to berate and mock it, as Sergei had done to so many other men during physicals, but wouldn't have been able to muster a single, cutting truth. It was long and thick, a slight blush of pink forming a gradient from the handsome head down the shaft. 

He was already aroused.

Of course he was. 

"Sick thing." Mikhail chided, "You enjoy being abused?"

Sergei nodded, biting his smiling bottom lip, cheeks warming.

Mikhail dipped down and grabbed the corner of the drawstring that had been bowed on the band of Sergei's linen pants, slipping it from the inner loop by holding down the discarded fabric with the toe of his boot and tugging it until it was free. He doubled the flat ribbon of material up, making it shorter and thicker, before leaning and unceremoniously looping it beneath Sergei's large, smooth balls. The older man shivered as he watched Mikhail tie a tight knot at the base of his shaft -- a makeshift cockring he was somewhat impressed by the ingenuity of.

But just as he was about to look up from his arousal at Mikhail, another deafening backhand was launched against his cheek. The impact fell him again, but this time he tumbled to his hip, falling to his back with a blink of shock.

The younger, shorter man was stronger than he looked. 

Mikhail chuckled at Sergei's surprise, stepping the few small steps he needed to loom over the older man's face. 

"Enjoy it all you want, but you won't be getting off tonight." He smiled, "You want to be trained? You'll be trained."

He lifted his boot to press on Sergei's face, lightly running the tread over it. The gesture prompted a loud moan from the older man, whose hands lifted to run themselves over the worn leather, fingers dancing along the stitched seams reverently. 

"Clean."

The curt order was immediately complied with. Mikhail could hear the sloppy, moist lapping and sucking, Sergei's unscarred eye just barely visible beyond the toe of his boot, shut in utter ecstasy. 

Mikhail smirked, turning his upper body to snatch the bottle of vodka from the desk and take another swig as he condescendingly sneered down at the pathetic sight. He could practically feel Sergei's tongue digging into the tread of his old boots -- he certainly was an eager slave. 

"A Colonel? You'd do much better as a door mat, Sergei."

The cruel words prompted another moan, Sergei's cock clearly twitching in perversion. The fabric he'd tied there was clearly getting tight around the swollen flesh, digging into the shaft where it hadn't before. 

Adorable. 

Mikhail rubbed his boot across Sergei's face lightly a few times before removing it, amused at the little streaks of dirt on the older man's red-hot cheek -- one that was now swelling slightly from the two, hard backhands it endured.

"Hands and knees."

Sergei slowly turned, shifting into the position he was commanded to take. Mikhail grabbed a fistful of his hair again, using it like a leash by which he had him crawl across the carpet with gentle tugs -- each drawing a tiny moan or peep or joy from the older man. 

He led him to an armchair that was in the centre of the setup in the room, demanding him to his feet and telling him to drape himself over the back. The Colonel complied, legs shaky with delight. 

"Do you have a merc kit?" Mikhail asked after casting a few curious glances around the room. Sergei lifted a hand to direct him towards a closet door, which Mikhail immediately went to and opened, interrogating the contents messily -- tossing Sergei's clothes and items to the floor behind him as he searched for the green U.B.C.S issue duffel bag. 

When he found it, he ripped through the items, letting out an excited peep as he found the bundle of zip-ties at the bottom. He brought them over to where he'd left the other man, kneeling to securely fasten each of Sergei's wrists to the front legs of the chair. It was an awkward position and his wrists were twisted uncomfortably, but Mikhail didn't quite care, and Sergei didn't protest. 

Moving behind the chair, he repeated the process with Sergei's ankles, ziptying them to the back two legs. 

"There!" Mikhail announced proudly, stepping back to appreciate his work for a moment.

The zipties in the U.B.C.S kit were notoriously strong and firm -- designed to constrain man and B.O.W alike. 

Sergei, in his lust-hazy desperation, may have forgotten that key detail. 

Mikhail made a slow, loud show of unbuckling his belt, letting the metal hardware _clink_ and _clack_ noisily as he freed the leather strap and wiggled it from his pant loops.

"You know what comes next, _da_?"

Sergei gasped an affirmative.

"I've wanted to see you **_squirm_** for so long, Sergei..." Mikhail looped the belt around his hand, "And I am going to make you squirm."

_**FWAP** _

The first lash accented the end of Mikhail's sentence, entirely unannounced. Sergei yelped, digging his head into the pillow of the seat, an obscene smile involuntarily pulling at his lips. 

Mikhail wasn't holding back. All of the strength in his broad shoulders were being channeled into the forceful beatings, and perhaps Sergei had underestimated the power that were in those arms.

But he didn't mind.

_**FWAP** _

"You act like some grand Colonel but really you're just a filthy pig, aren't you?"

**_FWAP_ **

"Gah!"

"Aren't you!?"

_**FWAP** _

" _D-da_!!"

_**FWAP** _

" _Da, chto_?!"

_**FWAP** _

"Y-yes, **Sir**!"

Prostate so overwhelmed, tendrils of white, pearly juice were being forced out of Sergei's bound cock, though not nearly enough to provide him any sort of relief from the buildup of orgasm feeling as though it were burning his delicate insides.

_**FWAP** _

"You're nothing but a fucking shame to our fucking uniform!"

"F-fuck.. fuck... _proklyat'ye_!"

Mikhail issues another series of lashes, ignoring the numbing exhaustion in his elbow and focusing on the whimpers that were jaggedly blathering from Sergei. The man's incredible back muscles were twitching and contracting with every burning moment of contact the strap had with his increasingly coloured bottom. 

It was flushed a deep red now. But Mikhail could already see traces of a bitter violet that would blossom into deep black by sunrise. 

Beautiful. 

Sergei began to sob nonsense through the lashing, hips thrusting into the back of the chair impotently like a dog in heat, provoking bitter laughs from Mikhail as he continued to administer the beating. 

**_FWAP_ **

There was something cruelly arousing about Sergei's brokenness.

Undoubtedly, his _peculiar_ sadomasochistic cravings were another manifestation of his war trauma -- the man having served in a number of battles Mikhail knew from whispers through barracks and across the dinner tables of his uncles had been particularly gruesome. Perhaps, at one time before prostituting himself to Umbrella, he'd been an honourable soldier. Perhaps, at one time, he had been worthy of the respect his medals demanded.

_**FWAP** _

But now, he was ruined. A human weapon interested only in destroying and -- as Mikhail was finding out -- being destroyed.

A war hero turned closeted whore.

**_FWAP_ **

Mikhail didn't want to contemplate it for too long, deciding to instead savour the small _pang_ of heat in his hips that came from dominating a man who had caused him -- and his people -- so much grief. 

He cast the belt aside suddenly, appreciating the horrific, red-and-blue blush that had taken over Sergei's pale rear for a moment before rolling up one of his sleeves idly.

"Let's see..." He mused, running a hand along Sergei's bruised ass and feeling the warmth emanating there. Any little brush of his fingers, no matter how gentle, over the tattered flesh provoked a half-moan-half-scream from the Colonel. 

He wasted no time in plunging a finger into Sergei's entrance, unconcerned and uncaring for whether the other man was prepared. 

He snorted when he found it was far from tight, well-worn muscle greedily accepting one digit and then another, throaty gasps from Sergei affirming his penetration.

"Not so tight anymore, are you?" Mikhail jeered, "The _polknovik_ is quite the whore, _da_?"

" _B-blayt_!!"

He forced his fingers in until there was nothing left, thrusting them in and out of the rapidly moistening entrance roughly. 

"Is that how you got your medals, then?" He cooed, pressing his fingers into Sergei's inner walls firmly as he pushed and pulled them out methodically, "Your war service was probably being a wet hole for the **_real_** soldiers!"

A deep, primal groan escaped the older man, whose response was a mix of English and Russian to the point where it barely made any sense at all. 

Mikhail barked a laugh, ripping out his fingers from the twitching ring of muscle and unfastening his button and fly. He'd resolved earlier not to fuck Sergei, almost disgusted at the thought, but had rapidly changed his mind. 

Burying his seed in the contemptuous Colonel was an opportunity he decided he didn't want to pass up -- no matter how filthy a human being Sergei was.

He tugged himself free, his erection already fully engorged with the arousal that had been steadily beating from his belly into his hips. Mikhail spat into his palm, running the moistened hand over his cock a few times.

It was for his comfort. Not Sergei's.

"How many times have you begged a man to _train you_ , I wonder?" He asked, a faux-innocent mew to his voice as he lined his cock up with the dripping hole, wrapping his free hand around one of the older man's muscular hips.

Sergei didn't have a moment to react to the words before he was punctured, a loud moan raggedly gasping from him. 

"How many **_fucking_** times... Do you have to be **_trained_**?" Mikhail barked, sheathing himself in Sergei's body fully with a deep thrust, head lulling back on his shoulders as he appreciated the momentary, overwhelming tingle of static the feeling of the warm body sent flooding through him.

He began to thrust, content with the loud, rambunctious pleas escaping the Colonel as he found a rhythm. 

" _Nyet_ , not even _close_ to being tight." Mikhail laughed, "I suppose your medals were hard-earned after all, Sergei!"

His fingernails dug into the older man's hips, squeezing the flesh there far harder than he had to as his hips forcefully beat into Sergei's bruised, battered behind. Every thrust provoked a series of curt yelps from the older man, who was drooling into the cushion of the chair pathetically, denied orgasm wracking havoc in his stomach as it jerked and tightened, body begging for release. His toes curled into the carpet, hands gripping at the chair legs desperately. The wood frame of the antique furniture creaked and groaned with every movement.

"I bet you'd like my platoon to give you some real training, hmm?"

" _D-da! Da-a_!"

"That's why you're such an awful cunt."

"O--oh _Bozhe_..."

"You want to **_provoke_** men into ruining you!"

Mikhail thrusted harder, pushing as forcefully as he could into the body beneath him, one hand clawing up and down Sergei's sides while the other planted firm smacks on his already-abused bottom, pressing the bruises like a button from which to provoke a response. 

His climax was louder than he wanted it to be, abs spasming and thighs clenching as he dug into Sergei one last time. Waves crashed through him, the sensation almost feeling like he'd never stop cumming.

But eventually, he did -- a hard breath escaping him as he licked his lips, standing still for a moment and savouring the sensations. Below him, Sergei's orgasm had been denied, and the man was thrashing and pleading desperately for the fabric bondage around his cock to be removed.

A smile returned to the Captain's face as he watched Sergei, twitching and squirming lie a needy pig.

It was perfect.

Mikhail sighed contently, purring and groaning softly as he pulled himself from Sergei. He watched the stream of his cum begin to drip from the other man, leaking down the contours of his bottom and running silky ribbons of white between his thighs. 

Bred.

Marked.

Owned.

He tucked himself away carefully, rolling his back muscles from where they'd tensed in his orgasm. 

Sergei was still panting and gasping, half-formed pleas for release breathing from him as he quivered and trembled. His cock leaked thin, desperate tendrils of cum but that's all it would be able to do until the string was untied.

"P-please!! Please! _Ya molyu vas_!!" Sergei's voice was ragged, garbled, blathering, "Take it o-offff-- _Bud'te dobry_!!"

Mikhail didn't feel jealous of his accent anymore.

"No."

He leaned down and grabbed his discarded belt, folding it neatly and laying it atop Sergei's back.

With a smile, Mikhail slunk over to the bookshelf behind Sergei's desk where he'd noticed a few extra bottles of the expensive vodka were stored. He snatched one, considering taking another but deciding to temper himself. It was just a parting gift he was granting to himself for a job well done.

Mikhail could practically _hear_ Sergei's confusion when he swiped his keycard and called the elevator -- the loud _**DING**_ signalling his move to leave.

A smile pulled at his lips as he stepped into the opening doors, wondering who would find Sergei first. 

A cleaner? An administrator? Perhaps he'd just send a conscript to the office with some _very important mail_ come dawn.

Mikhail popped the cap and took a swig of the vodka as the doors closed, suppressing a giddy giggle behind a toothy, sincere grin.

He'd always been good at training bad soldiers.

Sergei might just realise that now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL that was fun. I actually liked this way more than I thought I would, so I am happy I finally got this out of the drafts. Thanks so much to InkNPixieDust for the suggestion/prompt!!!
> 
> Notes: I made Mikhail Altai, which is an indigenous ethnic minority in Russia. In Mikhail's official RE bio, they say he was charged with terrorism related to working with an ethnic separatist group his wife belonged to, but don't actually state what group or give any other details. There's a ton of ethnic groups in Russia! So I just shot a dart and picked Altai, which are an ethnic group who claim autonomy over a certain region in Russia, and there is some tension between the federal Russian government and their ethnic government dating all the way back to the Bolshevik revolution, which might fit the bill of Mikhail's backstory.
> 
> Fit well enough for our purposes, anyway.


End file.
